


Songs of Yesterday

by pennilesswriter



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: 80's Music, 90's Music, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Armitage Hux is So Done, Bad Boy Ben Solo, Ben Solo Needs A Hug, Ben Solo is Not Nice, Ben Solo is a Mess, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Inspired by Music, No Guitars Were Harmed in the Making of this Fic, Poe Dameron Has Had Enough of Ben Solo's Shit, Rock Star Ben Solo, Slow Burn, Solo and the Smugglers, Songwriting, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Glam Rock AU No One Asked For
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:00:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25860970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennilesswriter/pseuds/pennilesswriter
Summary: Sweat poured down Ben Solo’s face as he breathed in the crisp air of Los Angeles that hinted at the slightest turn towards autumn. His shoulder-length black hair clung to his forehead and neck, and his satin button-down strained against the pull of the moisture on his muscled chest and abdomen. He closed his eyes, reveling in the feeling of the slight midnight breeze against his face.In one swift movement, he reached down and picked up a gleaming cherry red 1959 Les Paul and sent it hurtling through the atmosphere to the pavement below where it shattered into six figures worth of debris on the dirty sidewalk.__________Solo and the Smugglers have topped the glam rock/metal charts for the last few years of the 80s, but this is a new decade and the music scene is shifting. The band is beginning to fall apart. A songwriter from London is hired to breathe new life into their music, but maybe that's not all that needs a new breath of life.
Relationships: Rey & Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 13
Kudos: 33
Collections: The Sacred Texts [ 2020 ]





	Songs of Yesterday

**Author's Note:**

> HI HI HI! Alright, this idea got into my brain and just would not quit. I present to you, my dear readers, my first fanfic in literal years. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> A huge shout out to:  
> My BFF Erin, for encouraging me to get back into writing.
> 
> My amazing Beta Taylor (@irridesca) who patiently answered all my questions, bounced ideas back and forth, and soothed my frazzled nerves.
> 
> And Julia, who probably didn't think she would need to fix all my grammar mistakes but she did so anyway and I am DEEPLY appreciative.
> 
> Please mind the tags, Ben Solo has an alcohol problem. I repeat, Ben Solo has an alcohol problem. 
> 
> And now, on to the show!

**Los Angeles, California** **  
** **August 1991**

Sweat poured down Ben Solo’s face as he breathed in the crisp air of Los Angeles that hinted at the slightest turn towards autumn. His shoulder-length black hair clung to his forehead and neck, and his satin button-down strained against the pull of the moisture on his muscled chest and abdomen. He closed his eyes, reveling in the feeling of the slight midnight breeze against his face. 

In one swift movement, he reached down and picked up a gleaming cherry red 1959 Les Paul and sent it hurtling through the atmosphere to the pavement below where it shattered into six figures worth of debris on the dirty sidewalk. 

He practically shrieked with glee, and the roadies doing shots in the corner of his spacious hotel room howled with approval. Ben put the glass bottle of malt liquor to his lips and drank deeply as he staggered across the room. The untimely demise of the Les Paul had fired up the entire room of roadies and groupies. 

No, wait, that was real fire. A roadie named Toad was setting the plush down pillows from the king size bed on fire with a drugstore lighter. 

The groupies, mostly half-naked blondes, began to scramble for their clothes while screaming at ungodly decibels.

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” Ben yelled between swigs of liquor. 

The women fled from the room and chaos filled the air as though Pandora had just opened her forbidden box. It became a tempest of the burning stench of bedding, the sound of glass smashing against the wall, and the rumble of the ground as furniture was reduced to splinters. In one large hand, Ben gripped the bottle and in the other, he wound the telephone cord around his fist and yanked it from the wall, leaving a gaping hole in the drywall. 

The cacophony of destruction was interrupted by an incredibly high pitched wailing, and within moments, the entire room and its raging inhabitants were soaked. Knowing that this was the end of the fun, for this evening at least, the roadies hauled ass out of the room, shouting to one another about the cops and being arrested. Ben slammed the door behind them.

“Fucking fucks.” He muttered as he slid, soaked through, down the wall, and continued to drink. 

The door, which had been possibly the only still intact part of the hotel room, was suddenly kicked in so furiously that even in his shitfaced state, Ben flinched. In seconds, he was surrounded by LAPD and LAFD but more frightening than any of the men in uniform was the burly man closing in on seven feet tall that ducked through the doorway and strode with intense purpose towards Ben. In an instant, he was lifted from his comfortably drunk seated position. His feet dangled a foot above the ground and he heard the fabric of his satin button-down tear against the battle with gravity. 

His manager, Chewie, leveled him with a stare that any lesser man — which was the majority of men who would think to go up against the behemoth of man that was Chewie — would have pissed himself over. Thankfully, Ben Solo had run out of fucks to give long ago, and he returned Chewie’s icy glare with one of his own. 

Twenty long-winded minutes later and the fire department had reset the sprinklers, the police had left without incident after being talked out of arresting Ben courtesy of Chewie, and the last remaining authority figure in the room was a stout hotel manager in an ill-fitting mustard colored suit who was so red in the face Ben was _positive_ he was going to spontaneously combust. 

“Because of your behavior,” he pointed a swollen finger with a gold signet ring on it directly at Ben, “we had to evacuate this entire floor and the floor below from the hotel! _HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS WORTH OF DAMAGE_!” He flailed his arms so hard he looked like he would take flight at any moment. 

“I am very, truly, and deeply sorry for this accident.” Chewie began but was cut off.

“Accident?! _ACCIDENT_?!” The hotel manager shrieked. Ben’s head began to throb, his voice was like the sound of a fork scraping a plate. “Your clients trashed this room on purpose! Set the bedding on fire! Threw things out of the window and nearly hit patrons on the sidewalk!”

“Actually,” Ben slurred, “no one was even around when I threw the guit—”

Without looking to confirm that Ben was within hitting range, Chewie reached back and punched Ben in the bicep effectively knocking him off the edge of the tattered couch to the floor where he landed with a dull thud on the plush, wet carpet.

Chewie placed a monstrous hand on the back of the hotel manager and led him from the room saying something in hushed tones about “reparations” and a “non-disclosure clause”. He cast one harsh glance back at Ben who remained on the floor before he shuffled the tomato red hotel manager through the door and shut it behind him. 

Ben lay on the floor with his cheek on the wet rug, torn satin shirt, and a bruise purpling on his bicep where Chewie had punched him. He dully wondered where his drink was, and if the bar in the lobby would still be open in case he couldn’t find it. Somewhere in the back of his liquor addled mind, he knew that he had a gig tomorrow, and had thrown Poe’s favorite guitar four stories to the pavement below. 

He snorted. Poe was going to be so pissed, and he didn’t even care. 

Ben had never been good at controlling his mouth, or emotions, and now could barely control his drinking. Someone once told him to quit trying to improve at the things he was bad at and instead embrace what he did well. Lack of control was Ben’s opus, which he fully embraced and nurtured. Out of control was his default mode. 

He sniggered into the carpet, “I’m good at controlling being out of control.” 

A sliver of light caught his eye and he spotted his lost handle of liquor — surprisingly intact — a few feet away under the overturned and now two-legged coffee table. He pulled himself up to get to it, but found himself right back on his hands and knees, landing with a slop and small residual splash on the carpet. Resigned, he crawled on all fours to get to the bottle. He reached his hand out and was closing his long, alcohol-numbed fingers around the neck when it was snatched from his grasp.

He looked up to see Chewie towering above him, which he hated. Chewie was the only person who had ever made him feel small in his adulthood. Well, maybe one other person too, but right now it was Chewie who was holding the malt liquor bottle in a fierce grip. 

“You. Little. Shit.” He spat.

Ben sat back on his haunches, looking unassuming and bored, “what now?”

“What now?! Are you serious, Solo? You just did $673,241 and twenty-nine cents worth of damage to this hotel and you want to know _what now_?!” Chewie thundered.

“Well then, I guess it’s a good thing I make so much money,” Ben said without any emotion in his voice, an ambivalent expression on his face.

The silence between them stretched for a few moments before Chewie hurtled the glass handle of liquor past Ben, narrowly missing his head, and it shattered against the wall leaving a trail of thick amber liquid and sparkling glass shards in its wake.

Chewie bent down to eye level with Ben and spoke with a deadly quiet to his voice, “This is the _last_ time I save your ass from a few nights in the slammer and a lawsuit because of your dumb fuckery. And the lasttime I pay off a person to keep quiet about your antics and try to save your drowning career.”

With that, Chewie left in astonishing silence for someone of his size. Ben stared at the closed door for a few minutes before getting off his soaked legs. He stood shakily and padded over the squishy carpet to the kitchen for a glass of water. As he reached for the cabinet, the entire world titled on its axis. The kitchen swam in and out of his bleary eyes, and he fell to his knees and vomited all over the expensive Italian marble flooring. 

* * *

Eight hours ahead of the debauchery of Los Angeles, across the Atlantic ocean, the morning sun was rising on an unusually fogless morning in London. Rey Niima was sleeping peacefully in her makeshift living quarters which consisted of a studio bedroom and quite possibly England’s smallest shower. She couldn’t complain, though, as it was in the back of her manager's home and she was allowed to stay rent-free for the time being. Sunbeams were cutting through a threadbare Moroccan tapestry and gleaming right into her eyes and she stirred at the intrusion. Rolling away from the insistent sun, Rey threw her scratchy blanket over her head and continued to sleep. A knock at the door finally roused her.

“Rey?” Called Maz, Rey’s manager, and current landlord, through the door. 

Rey groaned, she knew Maz would not take morning tea by herself. She slipped from under the mismatched bed linens and plodded to the door. 

Maz, as expected, was smiling brightly holding a steaming teacup.

“I brought you a cuppa. English breakfast, naturally, with your customary honey and cream.”

Rey smiled sleepily and opened the door wider so the small woman could enter. She had grown very fond of Maz, and it seemed the feeling was mutual as Maz tended to treat her more like family than anything. She entered Rey’s small room and sat at the makeshift kitchen table — really an oversized coffee table with lumpy floor pillows for seats — just beaming at Rey.

Rey plopped herself onto the pillow opposite Maz, raked her fingers through her sleep tousled chestnut waves and into a semblance of a ponytail, and lifted the teacup to her lips, breathing in the steam and faint scent of warm toast before sipping the hot liquid delicately. 

“You’re mighty chipper this morning,” Rey rasped, her voice a little hoarse from exhaustion and sleepy disuse.

“What’s not to be chipper about?” Maz continued to beam as Rey sipped her tea.

Sighing, Rey placed her teacup on the saucer with a delicate clink, “Alright, what is it? You have something to tell me. You’re practically vibrating. I can feel it. Spill.”

Maz clapped her hands together excitedly, “as you well know, I have been sending your demos and portfolio around. A few weeks ago I sent them to First Order Records, but I heard back and was told no interest.”

Maz paused, this was the first Rey was hearing of being turned down by First Order Records. It made sense, though, they were a huge name in music and Rey was a nobody.

“Why didn’t you tell me they turned it down?” Rey asked.

“I didn’t want to crush your spirit. I know there’s been a lot of rejection lately.” Maz countered.

“Fair enough.” Rey took another sip of her tea. “Go on.”

“Well, it seems they’ve had a bit of upheaval in staffing. A new and younger executive named Rose Tico found your demo and portfolio in her new office. She listened to it and _loved_ it. She called to say you’ve been offered a songwriting gig! In LA!”

Rey jumped up from her seated position, all remaining sleepiness immediately gone, “Oh my God. Oh! My God. _Oh my God_! Really? _Really_?”

“Yes!” Maz’s eyes were enlarged with glee behind her oversized bottle cap glasses.

“Who will I be writing for?” Rey was practically jumping up and down. Los Angeles. A songwriting gig. Finally, it was happening.

Maz’s posture straightened and tensed ever so slightly, and she spoke with the smallest ounce of trepidation, “Solo and the Smugglers.”

Rey deflated like a balloon. Her shoulders sagged and she sank down to the worn patchwork cushion. “What?”

“Now,” Maz began tentatively, “I know that’s not your style -” 

“It’s not even _close_ to my style!” Rey cut in.

“Before you say no,” Maz held up her hands, “this gig pays extremely well. It connects you with people inside the industry, the label is going to pay for your flight and living arrangements, plus anything you need once you’re there. Opportunities like this do not knock more than once, Rey.”

Rey pushed her teacup to the side, folded her arms, and laid her head on them. “Doesn’t he have a reputation?” She mumbled into the table.

“Solo? Oh, notoriously so. He’s a right prick from what I have heard, but the rest of the band seems to avoid his drama at all costs, so I’m sure you could find allies in them. Besides, you don’t need to like them, you just need to work with them.” Maz offered.

Rey sighed deeply. This was _not_ at all what she had in mind for her career. Rey’s forte was piano and deep, personal lyrics. Not even close to the high-pitched singing and shrieking of guitars that were associated with glam rock. That’s not to say she didn’t enjoy a good glam rock jam every now and then, but she didn’t _connect_ with it other than surface level. Music was all about connection. Connection to yourself. Connection to your audience. That connection was felt and it brought music to life. Glam rock could be so lifeless. 

She lifted her head and peeked at Maz over her freckled arms, “How long do I have to decide?”

Maz eyed her with compassion, “You have twenty-four hours before they pursue other options.” She stood to leave, teacup in hand, and made her way to the door where she paused and looked over her shoulder at Rey. “I know you’re comfortable here, and I would miss you greatly, but this is truly a fantastic opportunity.” With that, Maz quietly shut the door.

Rey pouted and dropped her head back into her arms. Solo and the Smugglers had been high on the charts through the end of the 1980s and so far into this decade. Their music was entertaining; Solo had a spectacular voice, but it was a show. It was all a facade. Not to mention that stories of Solo’s haughty and entitled attitude, ridiculous behavior, and drunken antics certainly preceded him. 

_But it’s a job. A real job. In the industry. In LA,_ the small voice of success whispered in the back of her mind. Surely, she could prove herself this way. After all, if she could write hits for Solo and the Smugglers, her talent would be sought after. Rey took a deep, long drink of her tea and sighed.

* * *

Ben knew Poe was going to be pissed, and he was right. What he didn’t know was that Poe was going to outright sucker punch him the moment he entered the dressing room. 

Poe’s fist connected with the bridge of Ben’s nose with determination. Ben staggered back and Poe balled both fists into Ben’s collar and shoved him hard against the dressing room wall. 

“You _asshole_!” 

Blood was gushing from Ben’s nose onto his torn acid wash jeans and white shredded tank top. 

“I have wanted to own that guitar my entire life, Solo, and you just toss it out like it’s your most recent fling. Fuck you. You don’t care about anyone but yourself.” Poe sneered.

Over Poe’s shoulder, Ben could see Finn and Hux getting ready like absolutely nothing was out of the ordinary. As though their lead singer wasn’t bleeding profusely only feet away. To be fair, he supposed it wasn’t that out of place. Ben had never been a poster child for good behavior, but Poe used to be next to him on that poster. Now, he seemed constantly at odds with him. 

Ben smiled and it was ferocious with the blood spilling into his mouth and staining his usually pristine smile. “Hey, man, shit happens. I was fucked up.”

Poe narrowed his eyes, “That’s the problem, Solo, you’re always fucked up. You used to be about the music, and now you’re just about the lifestyle.”

“Look,” Ben held his hands up in surrender, “I’ll buy you a new one.” 

Poe narrowed his eyes but loosened his grip. “Fine.” He backed off and turned to go back to his seat at his dressing table.

“Don’t have to be such a prick about it…” Ben mumbled a little too loudly. 

Poe was instantly charging, and so were Finn and Hux, holding him back. 

“I fucking heard that, Solo,” Poe spat.

“C’mon, Poe, he’s not worth it. Just sit down and chill. We have a show in twenty,” Finn reasoned. 

Hux said nothing but stared daggers at Ben. They let off Poe when they were sure he wasn’t going to explode after Ben and went back to getting ready. Poe took a long drink from his beer and started working on styling his hair.

Ben’s nose had stopped bleeding but left one hell of a mess on his clothes. Looking into his dressing room mirror, he decided to leave it--he lacked the time and energy to even bother-- besides, it looked pretty metal. His head, already pounding from a wretched hangover, was now full on throbbing from the punch. 

“I think he broke my damn nose.” Ben scoffed. No one bothered to reply. 

He winced slightly as he applied his eyeliner and sprayed his hair. On a velvet tray to his right sat his favorite rings, he chose the platinum signet ring with a flaming red sword accented by three rubies and slid it smoothly down one long finger. 

He swapped out his plain belt buckle for an enamel red leopard print one and slid into his zebra print western boots. Stepping back to appraise his work, he grinned. The drying blood added the perfect final touch. 

Turning on his heel, he strode out of the dressing room to find someone to do shots with.

* * *

When Ben was gone, Finn heaved a sigh. “I don’t know how much longer I can work like this.”

Hux nodded in agreement, “He’s become terribly insufferable.”

Poe raised his beer bottle in a cheers motion, “That’s the understatement of the century.”

Hux barked out a laugh. “Did you hear yet? The label has hired a new songwriter for us. She’s coming from England.”

“That’s interesting, maybe you’ll finally have someone to take tea with,” Finn laughed, imitating Hux’s posh British accent and raising a pinky.

Hux good naturedly tossed a brush at him. “Seriously, though, she’s very talented. I was able to get my hands on her demo and portfolio. She’s… very different from our sound, but her writing is strong.”

Poe grinned, “is she cute?”

“Oh, for fucks sake Dameron, don’t you ever think with the head on your shoulders?” Finn exclaimed.

They all laughed, “You know I do! Now… _is she cute_?” 

* * *

Their laughter echoed down the hall to where Ben was perched on an empty equipment trunk taking shots of Patron one after the other in rapid succession. _Fuck those guys_ , he thought, _they wouldn’t be anything without me. I made this band. I’m the reason we’re successful._

Still, he couldn’t help but feel an ache in his chest at their camaraderie. He used to be in there laughing with them, now he was sitting alone, shirt and jeans splattered in blood, and listening to something he was no longer part of. 

The thought began to twinge, and he quickly downed three more shots, letting the burning of his throat and stomach overpower the hollow sensation that was clawing at his ribs. 

* * *

Rey took one last glance around the first room she had called home in her life. Her bed was made, the tapestry on the window neatly pulled closed, and the patchwork floor cushions as clean and fluffed as she could get them. She had one medium sized rolling suitcase at her side. Her entire life in one bag. She turned off the light and closed the door.

Maz was waiting for her at the front door, wringing her hands and putting on a brave smile.

“Promise you’ll write, and call me as soon as you get to your apartment,” she said, tears fogging up her glasses threatening to spill down her warm, wrinkled cheeks.

“I will, I promise,” Rey bent down to gather the older woman in a tight embrace. 

“Thank you, so much, for everything. I wouldn’t be on this adventure if it weren’t for you and your faith in me.” Tears were pricking the corners of her hazel green eyes.

“My girl, yes you would be. Music calls to you. Now go, you have an adventure ahead of you.” Maz released her grip and rubbed her arms tenderly. 

Rey smiled through her tears and went through the door and into the cab waiting to take her to the airport. As the cab pulled away from the sidewalk she looked back to see Maz, standing at the door, waving to her. The cab traveled quickly, leaving the comfort of her old life behind. The lights of London glittered like stars as she crossed London Bridge to her future.

**Author's Note:**

> The chapter title is a Skid Row song, if you haven't heard it definitely check it out!
> 
> I have a youtube playlist (because glam rock/metal needs to be seen, not just heard, trust me) here - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9RIeycixkK8&list=PLgDDCirc_WpGeKTWk64YY-WwJ_T00uR4a
> 
> More importantly, if you liked it let me know! Leave me kudos or a review! :D


End file.
